


Demons and Seers and Children oh my!

by Reavv



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Modern Character in Thedas, Multiple Inquisitors (Dragon Age), Possessed Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:41:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24081487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reavv/pseuds/Reavv
Summary: “Four of us are possibilities of the true timeline,” she muses, staring at Trevelyan and Lavellan and Cadash and Adaar in order. “And two of us are beings of the Fade, on opposite spectrums of aspecthood. And then there is us strangers—a single point of reference outside the influence of both the Fade and time. And then we have the host.”—Nine people. One role. Knowledge of both the game and the future. And one small girl, stuck between it all.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 91





	Demons and Seers and Children oh my!

**Author's Note:**

> Why stop at one secret identity when you can have nine of them. Why stop at one modern person in thedas? Why stop at one demon possession? Don't you just want to go wild sometimes?

The round table is poorly formed and mostly useless, but they all gather around it anyways. Even the formless Despair demon and its Valour spirit counterpart—which, considering they had spent the first day throwing shade at each other and airing Fade grievances, says a lot about their situation.

“I have never possessed someone in this fashion before,” Despair muses, unconcerned with the quietly sobbing girl next to it.

“Possession insinuates a willing participant—as far as I can tell, we were all forced into this shape by circumstance, not desire,” Valour responds, shielding the crying child from Despair’s aura. It makes the sobs quieter, if not completely erased.

“I would not rule out a psychotic break,” the strangest of them opines. She is a tall, heavyset woman with large rimmed glasses, her colourful shirt declaring The Dread Wolf Rises. Her hair is twisted into a messy bun at the back of her hair, streaked with blue and purple that’s starting to fade. Piercings litter her ears and mouth, and when she smiles her teeth are perfectly straight and white.

Trevelyan, who has seen his fair share of nobles with fastidious hygiene, is uncomfortably reminded of his own crooked features and skinny frame. He feels rather like a shaking leaf next to her larger frame—acutely aware that she could break him like a twig.

“This is nothing like any, uh, warnings of abominations or, um, madness that I know of,” he stutters out, rubbing his arms insistently to try and trick some warmth back into his frame.

“I've not heard anything quite like this in all my years as a keeper,” Lavellan agrees, leaning across Valour to gather the youngest of them into her arms. Her movements are slow and brittle, a sense of time weighing them down. Elves are long-lived—her apparent age is more than visible on her face and hair, such that the others cannot help and wonder at what she has lived through, and how long she would have left if not for their current...circumstance.

“Well I know for darn fact that it ain’t no dream,” Cadash snaps, staring at them all over the edge of the fabricated table. Their voice betrays their anger—both at the situation and the fact that they have not been able to determine how to make any seats or boxes for them to stand on. For the dwarf, it is a little like being at a war table with giants.

“If we discount dreams, possession, or insanity, what are we left with?” Adaar asks, stooped back so she can lean against the table. Out of all of them, she’s the one that appears the most injured—she was the one that fought while they ran from the Fear demon. For some reason, she was also the only one with a weapon in the Fade, despite the fact that the others all swore to being armed at the conclave. Even Lavellan. Her greataxe now lies against the table at her side, pulsing a sickly green.

As one, they turn to the stranger. They share a connection, all of them—an awareness of each other that’s shallower than a full possession and yet stronger than even the most successful abominations. If they wanted, they would not need to speak to communicate. They could, if they had the desire to, share their memories as if they were their own—as if their lives are each just long forgotten childhood nostalgia.

If they wanted, they could be one, and not many. In some ways it is tempting—to not worry about one’s identity or sanity, and return to a whole. But each of them are still individual enough to shake such thoughts off.

But it is because of this connection that they know—the stranger has an answer. It might not be a correct answer, but it is _something_.

“Four of us are possibilities of the true timeline,” she muses, staring at Trevelyan and Lavellan and Cadash and Adaar in order. “And two of us are beings of the Fade, on opposite spectrums of aspecthood. And then there is us _strangers_ —a single point of reference outside the influence of both the Fade and time. And then we have the host.”

She turns their attention to the exhausted child in Lavellan’s lap. The girl is maybe eight years old, and much less defined than they are in this space. Her confusion and fear is palpable in the air, as much a stench as it is a feeling. Her dress is torn and muddied, and her hair burnt almost to the root.

She was the daughter of another branch—the daughter of a Chantry sister, brought to the conclave out of desperation. She had just started showing signs of magic.

“She was not meant to be a possible Herald—but she stumbled into the protagonist role somehow. An untrained young mage, physically in the Fade. Connected to an artifact of untold power—still riding the waves of the Breach, bathed in whatever quantum energy the veil and its tears are meant to be. That amount of power? In the hands of someone who hasn’t learned that reality has limits yet? I’m surprised nothing weirder happened.”

“Weirder than this?” a rough voice breaks the tension, as the last figure sits up slowly from their huddled position on the floor. The man is also a stranger—although a little less strange-looking than the woman. But he too wears a soft cotton shirt with a strange design, odd woven stiff pants, and a coat with a deep hood that looks well-worn but impossibly made.

“I'm a skeptic for most things, but even if this was an elaborate delusion, it’s a little too elaborate, isn’t it?” the woman replies, raising a pierced eyebrow.

“This isn’t even how spacetime works—sure, if the multiverses are real, there’s a less than zero chance of one where Dragon Age is real, but the amount of energy required to transport matter through dimensions would be...unimaginable. The Breach couldn’t have done it—it would require a universe’s amount of energy,” the man refutes, looking frazzled.

“Understanding is futile,” Despair comforts.

“We just don’t have all the information, yet,” Valour replies, looking annoyed. “Of course it is a mystery right now—we’re not even awake.”

“What do we do, then?” Cadash snaps, roughly scratching at their beard.

“We should plan,” Adaar offers. “We have a wealth of information at our hands, and yet we must be cautious with our next moves.”

“The—ah, Inquisition, was it?—it won’t like its Herald being... us,” Trevelyan says, fidgeting. His hands can’t seem to settle, checking his pockets as if his knives will tumble out at any moment and settle in his palms. He’s always been twitchy without a weapon in hand. At least his lockpicks are still where they should be.

Lavellan eyes the man—boy, really—and hums in the back of her throat.

“It’s simple, isn’t it? Our body is the child’s—we have been blessed with a form that throws off suspicion by wont of being underestimated. We must just create a narrative that our actions follow.”

“Pah, easier said than done,” Cadash mutters. “We got both demons and spirits in here—n’ seven different people besides all that.”

Eyes turn to the girl again.

She wipes her eyes and straightens in the hold of the elf—looking, for the first time, as present as they are. She too is connected. She too is aware of their lives and thoughts and personality.

“I can do it,” she whispers, tugging a burnt curl behind her ear so she can focus on the table. “Mama always said I was good at play-acting.”

“You won’t be alone,” Lavellan comforts, shifting her burden. “At any point we can take over if something is scary or too much.”

“We might as well establish ourselves as odd and flighty to start, so any changes in personality or skill can be brushed off,” the woman muses.

“Do you always talk like that, or has this fuck up corrupted you to speaking like one of them?” the man mutters to her, ignoring her arched brow.

“If I may,” Valour interrupts, before they can devolve into bickering. “What are we going to do about the Dread Wolf? Even if we fix the Breach, and defeat the master behind it, that would mean only a few years of peace.”

“What else, we kill him,” Despair snorts, black smoke seeping from formless lips.

“Can’t kill ‘em before he takes the anchor—right? That was a thing you said.” Cadash looks to the woman for confirmation before continuing. “Besides, right now we got bigger nugs to fry.”

“Like surviving the Seeker,” Adaar agrees. “Then our steps should be thus—”

—

The girl is a small smudge against the cot, curled up to be even smaller. There was a lot of talk of chains and restraints and cells—but the first time they attempted to knot her hands together, her fits aggravated the mark and the apostate accused them of undoing his work. There were already those uncomfortable with treating a child as a prisoner, and so it did not take too much convincing to give her leniency.

Instead, Cassandra has taken to guarding the room, accepting reports and giving orders to what remains of their forces at Haven. When she must sleep, a rotating guard of their more loyal fighters, who can be trusted to not take their grief out on a child of not yet ten summers old, takes her place.

More than once, Cassandra has quietly cursed that they do not have a more culpable suspect in hand. It is hard for even her to place blame on the shoulders of someone so young, although she knows that assassins do not necessarily have the luxury of childhoods. But the girl is obviously of noble stock, and quite sheltered as well, ignoring her wounds and burnt hair.

Leliana has already traced her origins to a now-dead Chantry Sister, and so the likelihood of her being a willing participant in the events leading up to the Conclave explosion is small.

That does not help the survivors' feelings on the matter, however. Especially not with reports still rolling in of demons and smaller breaches in the area, compounding the damage. It has become immediately obvious that they need to find a way of closing the Breach, and according to the apostate, the mark on the child’s hand might do the trick.

As much as it pricks at her conscience.

Cassandra blinks her thoughts away and takes a closer look at the figure on the cot. These past three days she’s been as still as the dead, outside of fits of convulsion and screaming because of the mark. But now the girl is slowly uncurling, groaning with a deep sort of pain that Cassandra knows too well.

She turns to the door and quickly orders a scout to gather Leliana, and then moves further into the room, hand resting on the hilt of her sword without much thought.

She would call for the apostate as well, to check on the child’s health and mark, but he’s already left with the group attempting to quell one of the rifts in the valley.

“It is good you are awake—what can you tell me of what happened?” she attempts to keep her voice even, but anger seeps in anyways. She’s never had the patience for honeyed words.

“Nnng,” the girl groans, rolling over and attempting to kneel up. She’s not quite able—there’s a moment where Cassandra can see the pain of the mark hit fully, and the girl collapses back onto the cot.

“What—where’s mama?”

Cassandra carefully doesn’t wince, and walks over to the head of the bed so she is in sight.

“Your mother is gone, along with the rest of the conclave. We are attempting to figure out what happened—what do you remember?”

The girl turns at her voice and squints at her in apparent confusion.

“Gone where?”

Cassandra is saved from having to explain—just now realising that it’s possible that a girl as sheltered and young as this one might not understand the concept of death—by Leliana’s entrance.

“Lavinia Demarquis?” the spymaster asks, stepping into the room quietly, hands clasped together. It is only through their years of working together that Cassandra notices the tension in her shoulders.

“Yeah?” the girl responds, turning her attention away from Cassandra, lips trembling. “Why’s it hurt?”

She starts crying.

“You were hurt in an attack. We’re still trying to find out how and why, and you can help us with that. Does your hand hurt a lot?”

Cassandra steps back and lets Leliana take the lead. Honestly, she would not think the spymaster an adequate child minder in any sense of the word, but their options are limited. And Cassandra would only do worse, she is aware enough to realise.

“It hurts!” the girl agrees, although she finally uncurls enough to sit up. “Where’s mama?”

“We’re looking for your mother. Can you tell me when you last saw her?”

The girl knuckles at her eyes with her good hand and hiccups.

“Mama didn’t want me getting, um, underfeet—”

“Underfoot—”

“Underfoot, yeah. She told me I had to be quiet and not bother anyone. Um. Which I didn’t, nuhuh. She had to go with the important people to talk lots and I had to play by myself because I’m a big girl now. But then she didn’t come back and I was reaaaaaally hungry, so I went lookin’.”  
  
She squirms, tears slowly a little as shock seems to fade. Either the pain is subsiding, or she’s more mature than she looks.

Leliana smiles.

“That’s good. Did you find her?”

“Nuhuh. The concave—”

“Conclave.”

“Conchclav was really big! Bigger than my rooms back home. I walked and walked and walked, but I only saw weird people in funny armour.”

“Templars?” Leliana prompts, looking interested. Cassandra wonders at the education the girl has been receiving if she doesn’t even recognise Templar armour. She should have been fostered in the Chantry, considering her mother, surely?

“Nuhuh. They were dressed in blue and had this bird thing on their chest. Lots prettier than Templar armour. Mama says I can’t get a bird because they’re meant to fly and stuff and don’t like the inside. I don’t suppose I can get a bird now if she’s on a trip? She won’t know!”

Cassandra jerks and watches as Leliana’s lips twist down.

“I have some ravens I can introduce you to, if you’re good,” Leliana replies slowly, a familiar glint in her eye that is the only thing keeping Cassandra from running off to find the closest Grey Warden for answers.

As if reminding them of the time they don’t have, the flickering mark on the girl’s hand erupts again, causing her to gasp and hunch forward with fresh tears. Leliana leans forward to rest a hand on her shoulder, looking contemplative.

“You should bring her to the forward camp. It is obvious things will only worsen if we wait any longer,” she eventually directs to Cassandra.

“Absolutely not! She is a child,” Cassandra barks, hand creaking on her sword hilt.

“And she will not grow up into an adult in the time we have. It is obvious that the mark is killing her—our only chance is to see if this mark will truly affect the Breach, and hope that will stop it’s magic.” Leliana’s cold logic has always been a double edged sword for Cassandra. No matter how she likes it, Leliana is not wrong.

She grits her teeth.

“Right. Demarquis? We’re going on a little trip, but I will keep you safe. Do you need carrying?”

“I can walk! I’m a big girl!” the girl refutes, stumbling on her feet to prove it. Cassandra’s lips twist and she imagines a very slow pace to the forward camp. No doubt she’ll have to carry the girl at some point anyway.

“Let us go then.”

—

 _“That looks worse than you remember, Daria,”_ Adaar whispers in her mind as Lavinia stares up wide-eyed at the gash in the sky. It would be hard to look at, a dizzying, unrecognisable hole in the sky, if it didn’t call so lovingly to part of her at the same time.

 _“Blurry pixels have nothing on reality,”_ Jaime responds, his tense voice not able to hide the warble of fear she can feel from him. _“Gods. And we’re supposed to close that thing?”_

 _“It’s only the first boss we’ll need to defeat,”_ Daria agrees, sounding amused. The vague agreement from Despair at her words has Lavinia wincing.

“Come,” Cassandra says, snapping her out of her—and her new friends’—thoughts. She’s shaking still, and the quick pace the Seeker sets doesn’t help. She’s keeping herself from crying again—where’s her mother, she knows, she knows, she feels so old and stretched thin and not like herself and where’s her mother?—but the feeling of ghost hands on her back keeps her going.

Not all of her new friends are very nice. Despair and Valour make her feel small and insignificant. Jaime is harsh and angry and scared all the time. Daria thinks of everything as a game and doesn’t really care. Adaar dreams in blood and ash. Trevelyan flinches at the clunk of armour around them and stutters over his words, while hiding a bloody dagger in his mind. Cadash hasn’t stopped swearing yet.

Even Lavellan holds memories of bodies crushed under the weight of magic as the Templars cried for help.

None of them are nice. None of them are people her mother would have liked.

And yet she trusts them. Irrationally. Instinctually. She lets them keep her calm. Lets them guide her around, tell her what to say, how to act. She lets them squirrel away her fear as she stares out at the upturned earth and sickly green light of her new reality. Lets them deafen her to the angry mutterings of the townsfolk they pass.

If this is possession, it is so much more gentle than what she was warned of. She can see now why so many mages resort to it.

 _“That’s not usually why they resort to it,”_ Lavellan chides, even as Despair chimes in with a laugh.

_“Some respite requires a bit of breaking first.”_

_“Shut it, we’re getting close to the bridge,”_ Cadash interrupts, pulling Lavinia once again back to the present. It’s cold, and her shivering has less to do with her too-stuffed brain and more with the fact that she’s wearing only her thin Chantry clothes. Cassandra at least stopped for a cloak for her at some point, but it does little to keep the snow out of her boots or the wind off her face.

She stumbles as another pulse of the breach hits, blinking the tears out of her eyes as Cassandra steadies her with a concerned eye.

“We must hurry. It is only getting worse, and the longer we take the more likely it is that you will…”

 _Die_ , the voices in her whisper, but she locks that behind her teeth and tries to smile.

“Mama says I’m really strong—I can make it!” Her mother always said it in such a despairing voice, as a strong child had a tendency to make trouble, but she leaves that out.

“We shall see,” the Seeker says with her own twist of lips, pulling her firmly to her feet.

The whispers in her mind grow louder, and as she’s pulled forward even faster, she lets them speak through her mouth.

“Lady Cassandra, are you a Templar? Mama said she would have to give me to the Templars because I was bad. Is that why she’s gone?”

She feels the Seeker stumble a bit, turning back to face her.

“That—I am not a Templar exactly—but how did you know my name—”

The conversation is broken quite literally as a chunk of earth the size of a cart goes crashing into the bridge they’re standing on. The whispers in her head all wonder at the timing—they’d spent longer in Haven than the game Inquisitor did, shouldn’t the bridge already be broken?

“Lady Cassandra!” Lavinia cries, kneeling on the crumbling stone as the woman tumbles down the rubble. She’s lucky they’d stopped when they did otherwise she would be down there with her, and in this small, frail body of hers, she doubts she would have fared as well.

“Stay put!” the Seeker yells back up. “I will find a way down for you.”

She doesn’t have time to start looking however, because shades and demons immediately start pouring out of the residual fade essence in the air, brought down by the meteor.

 _“Not a meteor,”_ Jaime grumbles, but she ignores him, standing with a wobble. Peering down into the crater she can see the starting game weapons that the two outsiders remember, but there’s no way for her to get them from this angle.

 _“Why use a staff at all?”_ Valour asks. _“We have evidence of the mark working as a focus already, and even with the teachings we can give you, your magic is not developed enough for you to be proficient in staff magic as it is.”_

 _“You’re just a small thing anyways,”_ Cadash agrees, _“Better to stay out of the fighting.”_

 _“Lady Cassandra is a, a proficient fighter,”_ Trevelyan quietly offers. _“Don’t distract her. You’re small, I can show you how to move to not be noticed. You can probably dispel the shades when her back is turned.”_

 _“Here, let me help. I can guide you in directing the magic.”_ She feels the ghostly hand of Lavellan reach out and take her hand, a tingling sensation in her fingers and toes as the still-new feeling of magic rushes through her. _“You are weak, but weakness is not a flaw. Precise control will take you far.”_

 _“The blade that cuts the cleanest is also the smallest,”_ Adaar’s voice whispers.

And so she stands at the edge of the cliff, watching for the right moment, hand pulsing in time with her heartbeat. And when the second shade pulls itself out of the ground and moves to where the Seeker still has her back turned—it is not like the small magic she’s done before. This is not lighting a candle. Where before she’s always felt a small pull inside herself when she’s done something odd or magical, this feeling comes from outside of herself.

She’s not pulling on the Fade, no. She’s pulling on the shades themselves, and their tie with the Fade. Stretching the connection thin, until snaps back and forces the demons to lose their hold on this reality. It’s a little bit like pulling on a tight string.

She imagines for one long second playing the Fade like harp—and oh, is that how the Fadefolk see it?—before reality rolls over her again. Cassandra has noticed the shade’s weakness and makes quick work of them, even as Trevelyan guides her through picking her way down the cliff.

“You must stay close, there will be more fighting in the valley,” the Seeker says as soon as she sees her. She goes as far to pull her to her side. “I will protect you, but if we must fight, you must listen to what I say. You will hide, and if you are injured—only if you are injured—you will drink this.”

Lavinia is handed a red potion. The whispers in her mind mutter about health potions and one in particular starts criticizing the logic of magical plants and the ecological effects of having to pluck every strand of elfroot they encounter along the way.

She carefully tucks the potion into her pocket and a hand into the Seeker’s own, looking up with a wobbly smile.

“Mama always took my hand when I needed to stay close.”

She watches as the wealth of expressions flitter across the Seeker’s face, and feels the whispers inside chatter with glee.

 _“Oh, this one knows me,”_ Despair muses.

 _“Cassandra has always been a bit of a soft touch,”_ Daria agrees, and it is with that reassurance that follows Lavinia into the valley.

—

When the Seeker and the prisoner crest over the hill, Varric actually stumbles. He’d heard she was young, but he didn’t quite appreciate just _how_ young exactly the guards were talking about. She’s small, smaller than him, with thin bones and hair that looks like it’s been burnt clear off. Her skin is yellowed, eyes wide and hanging in the cradle of stark blue bruises, lit unnervingly by the glow of green of her hand. She’s trembling, even as the Seeker goes running down the hill to join the battle.

Varric can’t pay much more attention than that, because he soon has to duck under the swipe of a shade and continue to prove Bianca’s superiority. But he won’t forget the scene anytime soon.

He notices when the gathered shades shudder, but doesn’t pay it much attention. It’s not until a small hand is being lifted up next to him that he registers her again.

Her eyes are squeezed shut painfully, stretching up on the tips of her toes and looking a bit like a broken doll in Chuckles’ hands.

The rift closes with a snap, a sound not unlike a broken plate ringing out and causing a few of the soldiers to flinch. Varric steps forward instead, steadying the girl as she falls back on the balls of her feet with a gasp.

“It appears I was correct about the mark upon your hand,” Chuckles says, and Varric has to shake his head at the fact that no one here seems to know what to do with children.

“You ok, kiddo? It’s pretty scary out here,” he says instead of pointing that out. He gets that the grownups are going to want to talk about serious stuff like the Fade and the Breach and all, but the girl is shorter than he is. There’s no way she’s going to be able to understand all that.

“I’m a big girl now! And, and, lady Cassandra protected me so I was fine anyways.” the girl scrunches up her nose, probably in an attempt to look older than she is. It mostly makes her look like she’s holding in gas.

“That’s good. And hey, we’ll be able to keep protecting you from here on out,” he says with a wink, patting Bianca.

“Absolutely not,” the Seeker snaps, turning away from her conversation with Chuckles with a huff.

“You need me Seeker,” he rationalises. “She’s a child, and as good of a fighter as you are, you can’t protect her and fight at the same time. Have you seen the valley lately?”

“It would be prudent to have extra support to clear a path to the Breach. You should know, Seeker, that although the prisoner is a mage, she is untrained and still growing into her magic. There is no way for her to have caused this sort of devastation. Indeed, I do not think any mage could have done such,” Chuckles prompts, looking calm and placid and like the idea of having to keep a small child alive while fighting demons isn’t terrifying.

“I want Uncle Varric to come!” the girl says, turning her pout up at the Seeker.

“See? She wants me to—hey, wait, how do you know my name?”

The Seeker sighs.

“We will talk of that later, but we are losing time the more we tarry. Very well, Demarquis, stay close to the dwarf. I will keep the demons attention off of you.”

The girl nods energetically, reaching out to take a hold of a bit of his shirt. Varric tries to look trustworthy and innocent as the Seeker turns a harsh glare in his direction. It’s not his fault the girl seems to be as naive as she looks, and really, what can he say. He’s always been popular with children.

Even if it turns out to be weird mage children who somehow know his name. He can’t see the Seeker having told her about him or Chuckles, but he’ll keep quiet for now on that. Too many variables, and they’re on borrowed time as it is. But he’s not prepared to let it go.

“Um. Teacher?” the girl calls out in Chuckles direction. There’s a moment of confusion before he turns to give her his attention. And how interesting that Varric gets Uncle while Solas gets teacher.

“Yes?”

“There’s a staff laying over there if you want a better one,” the girl says, pointing over towards some steps a ways away. “Since I can’t use one anyways.”

There’s a pause as the gathered group looks at the girl, and Varric can see how the Seeker’s eyes go hard and intense. Always a little too quick to show her suspicions, that one. Varric for his part just laughs and starts moving towards the path, incidentally bringing the girl along and away from the both of them.

“We’ll you heard the kid, better get an upgrade.” He turns his attention to the girl, assessingly. “You might not be able to use a staff, but has anyone ever shown you how to shoot?”

“Varric, no,” the Seeker’s voice snaps, hurrying to catch up. It takes less than a minute for Chuckles to join them, a new length of wood in hand.

“Varric, yes,” he says with a grin down at the girl, who smiles shyly and hides her face as the Seeker grunts her disapproval.

Creepy Fade magic and foresight aside, he thinks he’s going to enjoy seeing where this leads. Part of him is already shoring up for the eventual heartbreak—how could it be anything else with a child as the protagonist—but he’s never flinched away from heartbreak before. A smaller part wishes desperately Hawke was here. Despite everything, Varric still believes that Hawke can fix things, even when realistically he knows it’s not true. Hawke has unbelievable luck, but even then they weren’t enough to stop the mess Kirkwall turned into.

It’s nice to dream sometimes, though.


End file.
